


Love Everlasting

by songs_for_sentences



Series: Sith is the New Black [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: ...bye, Adventure, Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I'm Sorry, M/M, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Romance, Slash, Tragedy, consider this a warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-05-25 17:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6205024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songs_for_sentences/pseuds/songs_for_sentences
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luke has learned to accept his lonely existence, but someone is about to change that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> your eyes have me star-spun/and the moon is in the curve of your smile

As he watches the ashes of his beloved drift onto the rocks below, Luke remembers. He does not want to remember. A sob catches in his throat, and he falls to the grass.  
  
"Luke?" whispers the girl. She is clueless, so clueless. He envies her.  
  
"I remember."

 

Luke Skywalker long ago consigned himself to the shores of Ahch-To. He has walked here for what seemed like eons, enough for his hair to turn grey and the soles of his feet to toughen; he can barely remember the days when he frantically searched the threads of the Force for traces of light. Still, he sometimes catches himself hoping, and he admonishes himself when he does. Hope is a cruel master. He would spit in its face if he could.  
  
Now, he stares out at the vast blue expanse of the sea, a grim kind of peace in his heart. But he is bored. He is really fucking bored. He has learned the hard way that using the Force, even for trivial things like making seagulls fly backwards, attracts those sensitive enough to the dark side. He spits on the rocks. He throws a pebble into the waves. He fiddles with a finely woven bracelet he made earlier (there are a lot of things you can make with grass) and sighs.  
  
Then the hairs on the back of his neck rise.  
  
“A disturbance,” Luke whispers to himself, somewhat giddy. “A disturbance in the Force.”  
Luke hides behind a rock like an experienced Jedi knight. His pulse pounds in his ears. He tenses, a cobra ready to strike.  
  
But there is something he did not expect: a warm hand on his shoulder.  
  
Luke whips around. It is, of course, a Sith lord.  
  
"How did you find me?" he cries.  
  
"Luke Skywalker," hisses the Sith lord. "We have been expecting you."  
  
"Thanks for the introduction."  
  
The Sith lord's face is hidden in shadow, but he reveals it with a swift flip of his cloak.  
  
There are three very noticeable things: one, the green skin. Two, the protruding eyes. And three, the long ears that billow out with the wind. Luke doesn't know what he expected, but there is something almost tender in the savage lines of his face.  
  
His breath hitches momentarily. “Go back to where you came from or I’ll kill you.”  
  
The Sith lord smirks. “Brave words for the last of your kind—and a weakling at that.”  
  
For the first time in a long, long time, Luke wishes he still had his lightsaber. He feels impossibly calm, impossibly removed. He has only one choice left.  
  
“Go back,” says Luke, “and say nothing of what you saw.”  
  
The Sith lord laughs. “Are you so foolish as to try that on me?” But something in his gaze has become less harsh, almost afraid, almost entranced. Luke puts as much Force as he can into the words this time.  
  
The Sith lord’s jaw slackens. The shadows of his cloak hide his face once more. “I will go back and say nothing of what I saw.”  
  
Something in him unwinds. The Sith lord walks back up to the top of the hill and simply dissolves.  
  
“Wait!” Luke says. “I need to kill you first!”  
  
But the wind takes his words. The Sith can’t teleport, at least outside stories—nobody has that much power. Something impossible, something intricate, is going on, and he doesn't like it.  
  
He has a bad feeling about this.

 

That night, Luke sleeps fitfully. Usually, it is easy to lose himself in the realm of dreams, but the Sith lord is waiting for him there tonight. He catches glimpses of his oddly mesmerizing ears and hears snatches of his low, deadly voice. He is always wrapped in mist—the ocean brings it to the island at night—and Luke can’t help but want to find him there. He blindly lashes out, and his fingers meet skin.

 

Luke wakes shivering and covered in sweat. He does not feel like going on his usual walk, for he can hear rain pounding on the roof above him. He considers himself lucky for finding the place where he sleeps—a small, ancient stone abode—and for the watertight workmanship the people who lived here put into it. It is a calming noise, the drumming of fingers on taut silk, and he lets the peace of it wash over him. This is usually the time he meditates. He closes his eyes, arranges his robes around himself, but his thoughts keep straying to the mysterious Sith. Wearily, he stands up. If the Order is coming for him anyways, what’s the use of practicing the Force? And damn, he wants a cup of something hot. He rummages through his supplies and curses himself for not bringing coffee. As soon as the soup begins boiling, Luke sits down and stares miserably into the flames. Then a thought comes to him: the dark side hasn’t come for him yet, and if they’ve waited this long… The idea of it is sour in his throat. There must be something bigger, something much more important, going on.  
  
The hairs on the back of his neck rise, and he's not even surprised this time. He wraps his cloak around his shoulders and steps out into the rain.  
  
It is quiet outside. He looks up and sees hills arching up like giants’ shoulders, grass burned grey by the sea, but he can tell that there is something else. The wind carries the scent of sulphur.  
  
Something else.  
  
“Halt!”  
  
Luke whips around to face a Stormtrooper brandishing a spinny stick in his face. Without thinking, he elbows him in the neck. Armor crunches. The Stormtrooper falls.  
  
But then another one punches him in the eye.  
  
Luke sends a rock flying his way, and he can hear the snap of bones breaking, smell the sharp scent of fear. Blood trickles into his mouth. The heat of battle is flowing in his veins. He smiles—just a little bit. He's missed this kind of thing.  
Luke is feeling pretty good about himself now, but a wall of Force slams into his gut. Suddenly, he’s looking at the sea below. This was a very bad idea.  
  
“I finally have you,” murmurs a low, deadly voice.  
  
The Sith lord pirouettes to face him, and Luke grimaces in pain. “You certainly do.”  
  
In this light, the Sith lord’s robes look like pure darkness—velvet, liquid, constantly shifting—and the sight is almost beautiful. Luke shakes his head. Bad idea. The world tilts on its axis, pitching his stomach, clouding his vision. The heel of a boot plants itself on his back.  
  
“For once, you're right.”  
  
“Not—for much—longer!” Gritting his teeth, he vaults himself up into the air. The Force twists itself around him, and he is only vaguely aware of his opponent flying through empty space. The Sith slams into the rocks below. Silence.  
  
Luke shudders and takes a deep breath. His feet are on solid ground, and for now, the Sith looks dazed. The sunlight catches his eyes: the glitter of water running over rocks. Luke forces himself to look away. It would be best to survey his surroundings, maybe tie the Order’s cronies up.  
  
The Stormtrooper he elbowed is lying facedown in the dirt, muttering something about traitors. Luke gives him a bemused shove with the toe of his sandal. He seems very loyal, and he has many sick spins. The other Stormtrooper, slouched just a short distance away—well, he doesn't look too good, either. Luke isn't sure if he's dead or alive, but he moves on. He hums as he walks.  
  
By the time he comes back with the twine, the rain has slowed to a drizzle, and his captives are just beginning to stir. The adrenaline has worn off. Luke is cold and drenched and hungry; his eye is already throbbing. Still, he blows jar jar the hair out of his eyes and gets to work.  
  
He is just tying the first Stormtrooper’s wrists when he hears the Sith lord murmur, “No.”  
  
A heartbeat. Everything in Luke has gone quiet. It is a soft, broken word, the kind that only desperate men speak. He almost feels sorry for him, but something holds him back.  
  
The sea roars below them.  
  
“I had to,” Luke whispers. “You...you tried to kill me.”  
  
“But that is the nature of the Order, Skywalker. There is nothing to be done.” The Sith lord rolls his shoulders back. He is very clearly alert.  
  
“Fuck no, not agai—”  
  
With a flick of his hand, the Sith lifts the Stormtroopers to their feet. They look almost hollow, though, standing there like demented puppets, and Luke knows he can fight them.  
  
He clears his throat. “Don’t make me do this. You are weary.”  
  
“Do you think I’m already fighting you again? No, no, little Jedi. I’m gathering reinforcements.”  
  
The Stormtroopers look less solid now, their armor shining like evening stars, and they slowly fade into the shadows. It should be impossible. What is this, Star Trek?  
  
Luke shakes his head. “You can’t have this much power.”  
  
“Dark side benefits.” The Sith lord looks around, brushes himself off. “I’ll be following them just as soon as I can—”  
  
He freezes. His eyes widen in shock. “What did you do?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“What did you do, you miserable little—” The Sith lord lifts a trembling hand to his face. “By the gods, it only happens in...” His voice drops to a low growl, and suddenly, Luke is very afraid.  
  
The Sith lunges at him. The impact is much harder than he expected—Luke sees black, orange, red, the color of the sky, the color of the sea. The air has been crushed from his lungs; it hurts to even try to breathe. He bites his cheek and swallows a scream. The Sith’s anger is almost palpable. But his fear is even more than that.  
  
He pushes back with all his Force, not looking up, not daring to blink. There is a sickening crunch. The warm taste of iron fills his mouth. What did he do? Luke finally glances up. There is nothing to be seen.  
  
The Sith lord seems to have shrunk: his shoulders are slumped, and his robes are stained even darker with blood. His head lolls at an unnatural angle. His limbs are peppered with wounds. He is no longer as beautiful as he once was.  
  
For some reason, a bitter feeling washes over Luke, settling into his stomach and sinking into his bones. He should cast him into the sea. He should drag him onto the beach and leave him among the pebbles and the carrion birds. But…  
  
Luke glares up at the cliffs. He can't. He doesn't know why, but he can’t. Is it because there is so much blood on his hands already? Is it because, as he's long suspected, that his sanity is crumbling? Maybe it's because he's tired of being alone. He lets out a long, slow breath. Yes, that's it—that must be it. He really is going mad.  
  
The wind blows through the grass and makes it rustle. He lifts his enemy above the ground, being careful to cushion his head, and pushes him along the old goat trail that leads to the house.  
  
The soup is probably cold by now.

  


One spoonful. Two. Soup dribbles onto the Sith’s lap as Luke pulls the spoon away. He tilts his own bowl towards his lips, shaking. This is forbidden.  
  
Now, in sleep, the Sith has regained some of his regal beauty: his skin is a dark, rich green in the light of the few remaining embers, and there is something intangibly lovely in the fine tracery of his veins. His eyelids twitch as if he is in a dream, and at every noise, he shifts and murmurs. Luke studies his calm, measured breathing and the arch of his nose. Here, he is safe—perhaps that is the most beautiful thing of all.  
  
It is growing dark (the days are short on Ahch-To), so Luke busies himself with lighting the tea lanterns, which cast a warm, cheery light on nights when it’s most needed. The wind howls outside the doorway; the mad shrieks of seagulls echo against the walls. Luke huddles under a blanket. Another day of waiting.

 

Luke dreams again that night. This time, he is walking through a forest filled with gleaming eyes and shadows. The smell of poison rises as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, but there is something else in the damp and the dark and the night—he can sense it. Luke turns on his heel, and he can see that behind him, there is something large and hulking. He is not frightened. He cups his hands and waits for moonlight to fill them.

 

When he wakes, Luke feels calm, as if the dream has leached his anger away. Muted sunlight filters through the entryway. It must be early. He stretches, cracks his knuckles, pushes the blanket off his legs. It is strangely quiet. The birds, he muses, must have realized that there is darkness on their island.  
  
Currently, the darkness is still sleeping. Luke shifts to check on him. His pulse has slowed to a normal rate. Letting out a long breath, Luke ducks outside. A sudden thirst claws at his throat—maybe he should get some water. Some for the Sith, too.  
  
It is even colder than it was before; the wind spits sleet onto the grass, and the sea is an angry shade of grey. He walks past his young potato plants, whose leaves are now curled from frost, and down the path to the little wells.  
  
The little wells aren't wells, really—they are small indentations in the rock, each no bigger than a cupped palm. He dips his canteen into them until it is full. The moss on the steps is slick today, and from up here, his hut looks like little more than a speck. It took him weeks to muster the courage to come up here and look for water; he'd used up his original supply by then. Memories come flooding back, their pain acutely fresh: the burns. His fear of falling. The nights when his throat was so dry it bled.  
  
He will spare the Sith this pain. There is too much of it on the island.  
  
When Luke returns, he pours the water into a spoon and gives it to the Sith sip by sip. And maybe it is because he is losing his mind—or maybe it is because the Sith is still delirious from sleep—but Luke thinks he hears him whisper, “Thank you.”

 

The next few days are a blur. They are filled with Chef Arlok’s Freeze-Dried Squid-and-Ginseng Soup and the music of the Sith’s breathing, milk-washed clouds and fiery sunsets. They are starting to seem ordinary, and strangely enough, Luke finds that he likes it. This sense of routine—this normalcy—is something he has not had since he was a boy on Tatooine. And there are dreams, always dreams. One morning he wakes to find the Sith trapped in a dream of his own: he mutters a word made of dark l’s and v’s over and over again into his pillow. Luke longs for the day he wakes up (he'll see those green-glass eyes once more) yet does not want it to come. Every second is a cliff’s edge, a storm front, something death-defying and exhilarating.  
  
He does not want him to leave.  
  
The secret is like candy on his tongue, but he knows that it is wrong. This can never be. They're enemies, for fuck’s sake, and he has no idea how deep the Sith’s hatred runs. What does he see in him, anyway? A reminder? A kindred soul? But they can never be the same, and he is certain that the Sith will attack him when he wakes.  
  
He is not quite right.

 

His eyelids flutter open like butterfly wings. The inevitable: a shocked gasp, then silence. A beat. “What am I doing here?”  
  
“The same thing that I am,” says Luke, unprepared. The Sith is still groggy, but he tenses. “You are my enemy.”  
  
“And you are mine.”  
  
A look passes between them. It is fraught with sorrow, suspicion, and something Luke doesn't understand. Then the Sith’s eyelashes dip. Luke stares awkwardly at the blankets on the floor, at his rough, calloused hands. The Sith will leave soon. He will tell them where he is.  
  
“The Order’s probably sent out search parties,” says Luke, taking the initiative.  
  
The Sith laughs weakly. “For a minor lord like myself?”  
  
“Stop talking like an orator.”  
  
The air crackles. It flees from Luke's lungs, then fills them. He shouldn't have said anything.  
  
“I must leave now,” says the Sith. Even now, when he is only standing to go, his movements are striking: they are an eel’s, a raptor’s. Then he topples to the ground, gasping. His shoulders slump. “Oh.”  
  
Luke blinks up at him. “What? What did you do?”  
  
“So you truly did not cause this? My...weakness?” The Sith lets out a harsh sound, more of a bark than a laugh, and settles back. “There is confusion in your eyes. I cannot use the Force.”  
  
Luke cannot think of anything to say. “You must be ill. You shouldn't be talking to me like this.”  
  
“Ah, young Skywalker, I am not ill. Perhaps I am just tired.” But there is anger in his eyes, red and hollow, a maelstrom or a sandstorm. He wants to crush this hut. He would pull the world apart if he could.  
  
Panic rises in Luke’s throat, and he decides that if anything, he can stall. “Maybe...maybe you can leave soon. But could you tell me something while you wait?”  
  
The Sith glares suspiciously at Luke. “What do you wish to know?”  
  
“Anything. There aren't many stories on Ahch-To. You could start with your name.”  
  
“Why should I tell you my name?”  
  
“Why shouldn't you?”  
  
The Sith clutches his forehead and shudders. “I guess I won't be leaving for a while. So be it. My parents…” His eyes grow dark for a second, but he brushes it off. “It was a long time ago, but they named me...Jar Jar.”  
  
Jar Jar. It is a name unlike any Luke has ever heard, something lonely and old. It glints in the light.  
  
“I will kill you as soon as I am well,” says the Sith offhandedly. “Why do you keep me?”  
  
Luke folds his fingers around the name and considers. “Because we are alike.”  
  
“Alike.” The Sith—Jar Jar—seems to savor the word. “I think we are as different as sun and moon.”  
  
“But…” Luke stops himself. Jar Jar has already dropped off, his fingers tracing dream-patterns on the blankets. Luke’s words, still unspoken, stir uneasily on his tongue. He says them just so they are free. “A moon is but a reflection of its sun.”  
  
The night passes. The sun rises behind the clouds.

 

It seems the Sith took one look at consciousness and decided it wasn't worth it. He pulls it apart, uses it in chunks, and sometimes, he lets words slip through. One night he looks up into Luke's face and whispers, “Anakin,” then rolls onto his pillow crying.  
  
So the Sith lord knew his father. Luke sits back and sighs. The Sith still lives in some world of his own creation, and Luke envies him. What was his father like? Did he once look like something other than the grey, scabby ogre that he had become? Luke dreams of shadows and blue-eyed boys. By the time the Sith comes around again, Luke is wrapped in thought.  
  
A hand taps his shoulder.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Luke recoils. There he is, his expression dark and brooding, his hands tucked carefully into his sleeves. He looks expectant.  
  
“You knew my father.”  
  
Something flickers in the Sith lord's eyes. “I...yes. I did.”  
  
They both sit in silence.  
  
Luke could kill him right now, bring the rocks in the wall behind him down with a single flick of his wrist. Whatever sins he had committed to know his father would be reduced to dust. But...  
  
Trying not to let his fear show, Luke leans forward. “Tell me why.”  
  
“It's a long story.”  
  
“I like long stories.”  
  
Jar Jar sighs, and he gets a faraway look in his eyes, a distant and sorrowful thing. “Once, I worked for the Empire…”  
  
The Sith is a master of words. They are river-grey and sky-black; he weaves them into tapestries, no, worlds, until all Luke can see are the glittering swamps of Naboo and the sun-scarred deserts of his father's home. Every syllable blooms.  
  
Luke learns that Jar Jar was once a very good actor with a penchant for vaguely racist accents. He was young and reckless and unafraid, and he betrayed them. It's all rather insidious, really, and he could easily be lying, but Luke finds that he believes him.  
  
“You are a terrible person,” says Luke when the Sith lord finishes.  
  
“Gungan,” corrects Jar Jar.  
  
Luke rolls the word around in his mouth: Gungan. It is heavy and tastes like home.  
  
“So tell me.”  
  
“Tell you what?”  
  
“The other side of the story.” The Sith tilts his head, eyes flashing. “They never told us that at base.”  
  
Is it just Luke, or does his gaze linger?  
  
“I...I don't know.” This could be a trap. But why?  
  
A corner of Jar Jar’s mouth quirks. “Go on.”  
  
He is an old man. The realization is like a slap to the face—he can never go on some life-changing, planet-hopping, star-filled quest across space again. And even if he does do something like the mad escapades of his youth, how will he be any help? He closes his eyes. He smiles sadly.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Luke says, “I will tell you.”  
  
He starts at the beginning. He leaves no detail out—there is the color of the sky when the two suns lit them, the grit in his mouth after long days on the farm. He hears the whirr of the Falcon’s engine. He lets his own words take him away.  
  
The hut gets larger and larger and larger, its ceiling so wide it could swallow the sky, and they—he leaves names out, changes them—are zipping through the Raiskzlgxlhclhcpyx Galaxy in their piece of trash, he is screaming “Naw-Ibo!” over and over again with no one to hear him, he is kissing his sister, he is killing someone in a white mask, cutting through paper armor…  
  
And finally, he is cradling his father in his shaking arms while a fire blazes in front of him.  
  
Luke doesn't realize he is crying until something brushes his cheek. It's funny—as he said the names of those he’d killed, they tasted like dust in his mouth, and he was sure he could never feel anything again. He carved himself hollow long ago. Now, he opens his eyes and looks up.  
  
There in front of him is Jar Jar, fingertips wet from Luke’s tears and eyes dark with concern. He purses his lips. “I know.”  
  
Luke collapses. Everything is inside of him and everything and everything and everything… Then there is nothing. He is sobbing into the dirt with a Sith lord watching, and for some reason, it is good.

 

The next few days are bliss. They talk of anything and everything; the lines the rocks scored on the Sith lord’s arms are healing into scars. It’s as if the world has opened up again, as if the sun has returned to the little island on Ahch-To, but Luke dreams still.  
  
He dreams that the sea recedes and the sky rains down.  
  
He dreams that his skin smells of apples, that his eyes bloom when he opens them, and that his voice, which is really razor-edged, has turned soft and lovely.  
  
He dreams that fire burns the island to ashes.  
  
He dreams that one dark, dark night, he whispers kisses over his skin.  
  
Guilt and its brothers are old friends of his, but this is a new emotion entirely. It is like fear yet somehow worse, like love, like pain, like sorrow. It rattles him and remakes him. It is tearing him apart.  
  
But one day, there is a respite. Wan sunlight filters through the curtains. He is stirring a pot of ginseng soup when the Sith lord says, “I think I want to walk again.”  
  
“What?” Luke turns around to look into his eyes. There is hope there, but there's also worry. The Sith hasn't been able to walk since the day he fell. Luke frowns.  
  
“I—wait.” Something about the sea... “Maybe we should take a walk.”  
  
The Sith nods, expression uncertain. “But…”  
  
Luke takes a deep breath. “Here.”  
  
Jar Jar’s hand is warm and strong, but his fingers are trembling, and Luke can see the delicate blue tracery of his veins. He would hold it all day if he could. He shakes himself, and slowly, they rise. With every step is a fall. As the path winds down to the beach below, it becomes steeper, rougher, and Jar Jar's grip slips and tightens, tightens and slips. They are panting by the time they reach the bottom, and their hands are slick with sweat.  
  
Luke jerks his chin towards the waves. “Here.”  
  
The sea is like silk today. Gulls swoop down in pairs and glide low over the beach, coming close to touching. He remembers the first time he came to this place—he was frightened, alone, guilt-ridden. It is not so different now.  
  
The Sith gives him a quizzical look.  
  
“Just hang on for a minute.” Salt is in his eyes and in his hair and on his tongue. This is the closest they have ever been. He hooks an arm through the Sith lord’s, and he almost falls back in surprise.  
  
They take two steps toward the shoreline.  
  
“What? Skywalker, what the hell are you doing?”  
  
“We're gonna walk into the sea and swim.”  
  
They must look strange to the gulls, he thinks: a strange four-legged contraption, a fluke in nature, hobbling down towards the water. His toes dig troughs into the damp black sand. Every time he takes a breath, he thinks he is going to faint.  
  
The sea winks and pulls them in.  
  
Luke jumps back when the foam meets his feet. He shivers as it works its way up his legs. What creatures lurk in this strange new sea? Are they savage, swirling, ready to tear apart any unsuspecting Jedi at a moment’s notice?  
  
But his thoughts change as soon as he catches a glimpse of Jar Jar’s face.  
  
It is glowing. The water is cold, but his eyes are on fire, alight with curiosity and childlike joy. He smiles when the waves crash into their legs, throws his head back when foam flies into their faces. He is happy. And damn, Luke could use more of that laugh.  
  
Luke turns away to watch the sun light the last shreds of cloud on fire.  
  
Then—  
  
“S-Jar Jar?”  
  
Where is he? Luke smells fear. It's coming from himself. Has the Sith lord turned to foam? There is nothing, nothing where he stood.  
“Jar Jar? Where the fuck did you go?”  
  
Panic rises in his throat. Can he swim? Should he go after him?  
  
He's going after him.  
  
Luke pulls a bubble of air over his eyes as he goes under, hoping that the water is clear enough for him to see. It isn't. The waves have churned up clouds of black sand, seaweed, and the bones of sea creatures, and Luke can barely see his own hand in front of his face. Still, he goes on. He's too old for this. Air, he needs air…  
  
He pulls down another fresh supply, but it fights him. It's getting deep. The water is clearer out here, though: he can see schools of what look like fish and the clean ripples of wave-packed sand. They look like the dunes of Tatooine, Luke thinks, wincing. A little seawater has trickled into his bubble. Luke swallows hard. Everything he once knew is lost.  
  
“Luke?”  
  
It is a warbled, faraway voice, and he wonders if he is dying. Is this one of his ghosts? Luke squints into the gloom and sees—  
The Sith lord flies through the blue dusk like a bird. His movements are graceful, fluid, so much less threatening than they were before. His ears are sails in the wind. Even the minnows are in awe—a large school of them surrounds him, flocking around his arms and legs.  
  
“Luke. Luke!”  
  
“You're okay,” says Luke as the water rushes in.  
  
They kick their way to the surface. Luke falters, shudders as the sea almost overtakes him, but he makes it. The Sith is there waiting.  
  
“It reminded me of home,” he explains as soon as Luke bursts over a wave.  
  
“I thought you’d drowned!”  
  
“I thought you were about to.” The Sith gives him a wry smile. “You were struggling there.”  
  
And then Jar Jar pulls him close. Luke glances down at Jar Jar's strange, leathery hands, which once looked cold but hold more warmth than he ever could have imagined, and then up into his eyes, which somewhat resemble a frog’s but are much sexier. His lips are so, so close…  
  
Luke pushes him away. “We can't.”  
  
“Why not?” The look in his eyes is wild, desperate. “Really, tell me.”  
  
“I'm not even gay!”  
  
“Oh, come on, you totally are!” Jar Jar shakes him. “I heard those dreams. They were pretty intense.”  
  
Luke feels a blush creeping up into his cheeks. “No. Those weren't...anything.”  
  
“They were definitely something.” Fuck, he's beautiful.  
  
Luke finally stops. “I—fine. You know what? They were. I have a crush on you, Jar Jar. But we're on different sides—our use of the Force is dark and light.”  
“And?”  
  
“It's impossible.”  
  
“Why is it impossible? Are you afraid?” The Sith runs a finger down Luke's cheek.  
  
“Yes, damn it! I am afraid!” Fury is working its way into his voice, but that's exactly what he wants to avoid. “We. This. It can't work because we hate each other. Fuck, we tried to kill each other the second time we met!”  
  
“But not anymore.”  
  
Then Luke has an idea. “Jar Jar, you're so talented. You could easily work for the light—I'm practically their mascot. Just step away from your fear.”  
“No.” The Sith lord is shaking. “I thought you knew why. Gods, I thought you understood me!”  
  
“I do, though,” says Luke. “I was tempted, too.”  
  
“It doesn't matter. Are you really this blind? We are instruments of...of carnage, of war! We were used. I was used. It doesn't matter what side we’re on.”  
“But love is on the light side.” There. He said it. The word tastes like dirt in his mouth.  
  
Jar Jar laughs. “And tell me how you kept that light, Jedi knight. You shaped it into a weapon.”  
  
“So did you!”  
  
“You just ended your own argument.” The Sith lord smiles a mirthless smile. “I shall leave and confirm your location to them. At least there, my loyalty is appreciated.”  
  
“No…” He isn’t crying. It must be the sea.  
  
“Goodbye, Skywalker.” Is Luke imagining things, or is his voice breaking, too? “I loved you.” Jar Jar tenses, shows his teeth, closes his eyes tight. His skin turns the color of evening stars, and then there is nothing.  
  
Luke swims back to shore and picks up fistfuls of sand.


	2. Chapter 2

Luke tortures himself with questions. Where is he right now? When will they come?  
Did he really love him?  
At night, Luke is plagued by bad dreams, dreams of blood and smoke and betrayal. He sleeps close to the Sith’s blankets because they smell like apples and wakes with tears on his cheeks. He catches himself calling his name some mornings, so he bites his tongue until it bleeds.  
He tells himself it will get better. But as the days pass and he sinks deeper and deeper into his wintry sorrow, he begins to lose hope. Why did he allow himself to hope? It is a luxury he cannot afford. He is waiting for no one and nothing, he has probably been forgotten already, and everything he loves has been destroyed.  
The thoughts start coming. They are wisps, barely substantial enough for him to give them any sort of attention, but they are still there. The cliffs slant down into the sea. He should leave this place. He should give himself up.  
Why has he been resisting the Order, anyway? Luke has no reason to stay here, where everything terrible comes to haunt him, and the dark is so much easier than the light. He can remember those few fleeting moments when he touched it—it was a torrent of heat, of anger, of fear. It beckoned him, twisted around itself to whisper dreams in his ears. It was want condensed.  
Luke sighs and watches the clouds pass overhead. He is going insane. Ensconced in the quiet darkness of the hut, Luke thinks. The hut has been his sanctuary for three days; he hasn't gone out since the Sith left, not even to refill his canteen. Luke takes a sip of stale water and wonders if this place will be his tomb.  
Suddenly, the walls are too close. He is suffocating. The sky is closing in. He needs to get out, out, out—  
Luke blinks up into the bright sunlight. A light mist of rain is falling, and really, the day is actually pretty cloudy, but it feels like he's being blinded. He looks out over the cliff and to his Sith’s beloved ocean, then turns to face the path to the little wells. He's thirsty. The paralysis that kept him frozen for so long has been replaced by one command: survive. It is so much like before. But still, he can't move if he remembers that day on the beach, when he was caught in the circle of his arms…  
Luke shakes himself. He needs to live.  
The path has been made muddy by the rain. He slips and sinks; the earth clings to his boots and the hem of his cloak, and every step is a struggle. By the time he reaches the little wells, he is panting, sweat mingling with the rain on his brow. He bends down to drink from one.  
But there is no water. Luke stares in disbelief at the empty wells, feeling sick to his stomach. A fleeting thought: Was this the Sith? No, it can't be—he would never betray him, or at least that's what he thinks…  
Luke looks up to see a very large boulder wedged into the channel that leads to the little wells. He spits curses into the air. If anything controls the universe, it’s an ass (I am an omniscient donkey). He gave the Sith this water. It has gained some sort of meaning for him. Luke stands there, unblinking, unfeeling, wondering if this is what will always happen to him. Taking a deep breath, he turns on his heel to go back. He needs water, though, and has nowhere to get it.  
This island has controlled him for so long. He has lived in fear of its storms and its mountains, of its darkness and its mist-draped valleys. Luke hasn’t set foot on the other side of the island, partly because he had everything he needed on this side but mostly because of this fear, this deep-rooted fear, and the hope of being discovered.  
Well. He got that wish.  
“You know what?” says Luke to the air. “Why the hell not?”  
He will climb this mountain. He will climb this mountain and live.

The mountain is made of two peaks that rise from the scree like impossible knives. As he gets closer, he can see that they have been ravaged by wind and rain, that they are covered in innumerable hairline cracks that could lead to the splintering of the rock at any moment. They are higher than the clouds, greater than his ambition.  
He takes one step forward.  
The grass is grey and cold-bitten, slick with mud and rain. It grows in tufts, so he has easier footing than before, but it leaves the uncomfortable impression that he is climbing over the shoulders of some gigantic beast. He blows air out through his nose; he feels that he should make no sound. The ground rises. It turns rocky. Up here, it feels like anything is possible, like the wind could sweep him away with one great breath. He comes to a stream. It looks clean and is swift-running, so he kneels down and splashes it over his face. The water is icy. He drinks all he can. Maybe he should have boiled it first, but the mountain is close and he can't stop now.  
Luke sees wonders. There are little yellow starflowers that fill shady slopes and grey-furred rodents that hop away at his footsteps. The clouds grow darker, and the wind grows stronger. He didn't know these things existed. He is afraid.  
Finally, he comes to a face of sheer rock. The sky if filled with it, trembles with it, threatening to rain down upon him. It is honey-colored in this light, now that a few shafts of sun have pierced through the clouds, and Luke may have found it beautiful once.  
He takes a step closer. It radiates cold.  
Gritting his teeth, Luke seeks out a handhold and pulls himself up.

Every step hurts. Well, step is an exaggeration; he is crawling slowly upward, pressing his toes into chinks in the rock and hoping they hold. He is fairly sure they are bleeding. His fingers are numb, slow, reluctant. Several times he has had to use the Force to slow his fall, drifting down close to the rock face as if he were on a rappel. Even then, the wind threatens to blow him off course, tears at his clothes and burns his skin.  
Why is he doing this? There are no answers, only the next few inches.  
Luke squints up and realizes, with relief, that he is nearing the summit. It is wrapped in gold and wisps of cloud. The air is getting thinner, though, and with it drops the temperature. He leans against a pinnacle to catch his breath. He is wheezing. Up here, the cracks are wider and close together: more footholds but also more chances for the rock to come crashing away. Luke swallows nervously as a pebble skitters off the slope and down, down. The cliff is at least a thousand feet; if he falls with nothing to cushion him, he will die.  
That could be him.  
He won't look down. Can't look down.  
“Yes,” Luke gasps to no one in particular. “Oh, yes.”  
Ahead of him are the boulders on the peaks, their sides smooth and almost vertical. He can do it. His teeth are ice in his mouth and his bones are hollow, but he will do it. He leaps from boulder to boulder like a goat, letting the wind catch him, letting his robes fly free, and maybe, just perhaps, letting himself feel happy.  
The boulder rocks as he lands on it. This is the highest one, the one that crowns the peak, the one that he will stand on and gaze out into forever.  
But.  
The rock bites into his fingers. It is cold like snow. It sways, and Luke panics. He scrabbles for a handhold, something, anything, when his foot strikes an overhang. He stops, a wave of relief washing over him.  
But.  
A toe slips.  
The boulder cracks.  
He is torn into nothing.

The fall is faster than anything he ever could have imagined. The boulder whistles past and—is it him or the roar of the wind?—Luke starts screaming. There is nothing in his lungs. His limbs are being ripped from his body. An indescribable feeling, maybe something sick, hollow, churns in his gut. He searches for the Force, snatches, lunges, but his mind is blank and vertigo-spun. It has to stop. Stop. Stop.  
Luke keeps falling.  
Slowly, black patches fill his vision. It is cold.  
The ground is getting closer.  
Then—  
Crshcxxchchxzhsh.  
A gasp. A sickening crunch. Hard things (jar jar) are in his mouth, maybe pebbles… He spits them out. The pain isn't blinding, not yet. The scent of iron has filled his nose, and he lays there for a while, gasping, sputtering, wondering how the hell he survived.  
Blood is in his mouth. There’s a sharp pain in his side—it feels like he’s being stabbed with a paring knife. He rolls over, runs a hand over his ribcage, and pulls out what looks like a very bloodied bone—part of a goat skeleton? Air whistles in his chest. He can't breathe.  
“Stupid,” he snarls to himself, frantically reaching out for the Force as he spreads his fingers over the wound. He is dying. He thought too soon.  
“Luke?” calls a voice. Fuck, he really is dying, isn't he? Maybe it's a ghost, a hallucination.  
“Luke. I...I came back.” The voice is tragic as the sea.  
Jar Jar?  
No. Deliriously, he whispers, “You're not real.”  
“Stop talking like that!” Two hands clamp down on his shoulders and roll him over. Luke dimly blinks up at the molten sun. This can't be possible.  
“Jar Jar, you're just a fig—”  
“No, I'm not! I'm the one who saved you, Luke...Gods, I hope I saved you. I-I couldn't do it. I came all this way…” The voice snags on the words, comes out in a rush. “Don’t give up on me now.”  
Something warm splashes on Luke's cheek. He barely registers it. The voice is faint, faint, and so very far away. He musters the strength to tilt his head and murmurs, “Couldn't do it?”  
“Your location. I couldn't tell them where you were when they asked, and, well, they're not happy.” The voice stops, perhaps considering. “Now they're trying to find both of us.”  
“Safe here,” Luke whispers gently. Then he rolls on his side.  
“Not for you.”  
Luke feels a hand sashay over his ribs, then stop at the wound. It presses a cushion of air against it. A wedge of Force rises behind his back, and now he is sitting, gazing into Jar Jar’s face.  
His skin is just as he remembers it, though it has gained a rosy tint; his eyes still carry the glint and glimmer of clear-cut emeralds. His Sith’s robes are golden in the light, fanning out behind him like a cape. He is here. He is real.  
“Can you breathe?” he asks. “I sealed the tear. I-I did everything I could, Luke, I promise. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. Just...promise me, Luke, that you'll never do anything like that again.”  
Hoarse laughter escapes him. “Like falling off a cliff? And yeah, I can breathe.” His eyes follow the smooth contours of his face. “Can you?”  
Jar Jar sighs audibly. Then the tears start coming.  
His anxiety fading, Luke reaches out and wraps him in his arms.  
They stay there for a while, two specks in an endless sea, and listen to each other's breathing. It is enough and always will be.  
Jar Jar extricates himself and glances disgustedly at the teeth on the ground. “We need to get you healed.”  
“I know,” says Luke, grinning despite his broken mouth. “Hopefully it's effective as last time. And...I won't try to climb any more mountains alone.”  
“No. The next one we’ll climb together.”

Luke heals surprisingly fast, considering the fractured ribs, minor concussion, and punctured lung the fall gave him. Besides, Jar Jar is there to keep him company. They talk and nae nae quan through the twilight hours and well into the morning. The stories they tell are grand, intricate; miraculously, they come with coffee (Jar Jar stole some from the base).  
One evening, Luke is sipping ginseng roast when something occurs to him. The coffee is dark and nutty, and he lets it linger on his tongue before he says, “I have a question.”  
Jar Jar glances over his mug, gives him a wolfish smile. “Well, what is it?”  
“So you know that day when we went to the beach? You could swim. But you couldn't walk.”  
“Yes?”  
Luke clears his throat nervously. “Were you...er…I don't know how to put this.”  
“Faking it? Swimming is fundamentally different from walking, Skywalker.” But his eyes glint mischievously, and Luke can't help but wonder.  
“Anyways, I can walk. And...I wonder if the stars are out tonight.”  
Jar Jar tilts his head toward the doorway; Luke nods. Together, they rise. Hand in hand, they walk out into the night.  
It is cool, and a light wind frisks across the grass. The stars are indeed out tonight: they are innumerable, each spinning in their own quiet orbits across the blue, blue sky. Luke follows Jar Jar down the path. They move gracefully as goats, and it is easy this time.  
“Luke?”  
The black beach stretches out before them. “Mm?”  
“You go first.”  
Their footprints are slices of moon. Luke walks into the surf, and waves tug playfully at his robes. The water is as cool as the air. This time, he is not afraid of what lurks beneath the surface—he embraces it. Jar Jar follows. They splash each other and swim and they are not sure if the salt on their cheeks is from tears of laughter or the sea, but they do know that this is right.  
Out here, Luke's feet do not touch the bottom. The waves are capped with moonlight; it is like swimming in a sea of stars. The world spins round and round about them.  
“Luke,” says Jar Jar, his skin beaded with drops of light, “I've done some thinking.”  
He reaches out and touches Luke’s arm. A shiver runs through him.  
“About what?”  
“Last time we came here, you said we were on opposite sides.” He takes a deep breath. “Maybe we can form our own.”  
Our own side. It would stop so much pain and bloodshed. They would be free, free, free.  
“Yes,” Luke murmurs, already sauntering into Jar Jar’s arms, “our own side.”  
And then he leans in close.  
Jar Jar’s lips taste like ginseng and clover and joy. Warmth rushes through him. Luke presses three fingers to the edge of his smile.  
And then it becomes more than that.  
They look at the stars that have much pretty. “Hot damn those stars are pretty”  
“Not as pretty as u”  
“Omg for realz?”  
“Ya your sexy”  
“Oh cool ur sexy too”  
They have very passionate sex for many hours  
jar jar came n they fukd the end  
The end

When Jar Jar says he has to leave, it almost crushes him. These have been the happiest days of his life  
“Why?” asks Luke, letting the tears fall.  
“They'll find us. I-I’m terribly sorry, Skywalker. Just...if anything happens, let me know.”  
“What the hell, Jar Jar? How am I supposed to let you know?”  
Jar Jar’s feet are swinging off the edge of the mountain. He smiles bitterly and gazes at the sunset. “If it's big enough, I'll know.”  
“The Force?”  
Jar Jar nods. They drift down to the ground together.  
Just as he fades away, Jar Jar whispers, “I love you.”  
Luke frowns. There’s something else—something important—he’s hiding from him; Luke knows from months of experience. Maybe he saw it in the glimmer of his eye, in the set of his mouth.  
“Jar Jar—”  
He is already gone, but Luke stands there waiting. Waiting for him to come back. Waiting to ask him. Waiting to tell him the same thing.  
He waits for twenty more years. 

“I love you,” Luke whispers to the ashes drifting down into the waves.  
He should have seen it coming—Jar Jar, rushing to the island on Ahch-To because there was a disturbance in the Force. Jar Jar, with his Sith’s robes and strange face.  
The girl had no way of knowing. She was armed and taken by surprise.  
Jar Jar, struck down by Luke’s own lightsaber.  
He cannot blame it on the girl. She has been conditioned by years of experience, war, and fighting. She is a survivor. They are alike. He can see it in the set of her shoulders, in the dirt on her face, in her awfully familiar eyes.  
“What's your name?” he asks her once the silence has passed.  
“I'm Rey. And...you?” She squints at him, afraid and uncertain. They even sound alike—if not in pitch but in the cadence of their voices.  
“Luke Skywalker.” Words escape him. What is there to say? But he has so much to teach her, so much to do to end this vicious cycle.  
Rey looks up at him. She is fierce, determined. “Why is this island made of goats?”  
Luke ignores the question. He sees himself in her; he sees someone else, too. It is intrinsic knowledge, a secret he cannot deny.  
“Rey, I did the same thing, and I know that you will rise above it. So I'm going to tell you something you may not like.”  
He looks earnestly into his daughter’s hazel eyes.  
“That was your father, Rey, and so am I.”

Then they all died and no one has to suffer in this stupid fanfic anymore  
Good bye  
the end


	3. A New Hope

The goats know all.  
The goats know all---the wind breathes secrets against their rain-rough hides; the waves break against their ears, hiss news, and retreat. It is cold and lonely on Acht-To, and nothing happens here, but today is different.  
Today, a Jedi weeps bitterly over the ashes of his beloved.  
A kid scampers up the side of the mountain. He has seen everything.  
Suns set and moons rise. For months and months, the girl trains, the man teaches, and the island is perfect in its monotony.  
The kid grows. Horns sprout from the sides of its head, sharp and miraculous; its eyes now glint like coins in the dark.   
The wind breathes a secret against his hide.  
He scampers down to the beach, where the mountains meet the sea. The waves are like cut glass. All is still and green and clear.  
Then:  
Something grey and pock-marked rises from the foam. It floats up and up and up. There is a noise like bones breaking: a long, beleaguered breath, ragged from disuse.  
The kid flees in terror. It is death to look upon it.  
The goats know all, and they know this best---endings are merely beginnings in disguise.

**Author's Note:**

> ...Palpatine made me do it.  
>  You can find another copy of this work on percicorox-XD's account at fanfiction.net (shout-out to my cowriter!)
> 
> ALSO
> 
> This story will be continued in another work! (It's going to be a series! Im so sorry)


End file.
